Books hold so many things,
Poems, lyrics, and storys.
Storys of people, plants, animal, and so much more,
But it holds its own story to.
Its cover is torn and ripped from the drawers its been hidden away in,
It fall apart bit by bit from the people who have read its storys,
But most of all its pages hold eternal knowledge knowone can take away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem